The Crowns Vengeance

by Andrew Clawson

  Just below the sun deck’s overhang, shaded from the heat, a man sat alone, eyes hidden behind a pair of sunglasses. Dressed in linen pants, creamy white shirt halfway unbuttoned, he enjoyed this privileged view of Saint Tropez’s famed shoreline. At his side sat a cell phone, precariously close to the tumbler of room-temperature Guinness beer that had just been delivered by one of the dozen servants on board.

  A sultry voice drifted from overhead.

  “Nigel, come join us.”

  It was one of those idiotic models begging for attention.

  “I’ll be up in a moment. I’ve an important call to make.”

  Halfhearted moans of displeasure followed, though he couldn’t have cared less. There was one reason those two were on board, and it wasn’t for the conversation. A soft chuckle escaped his lips, for he understood they, too, were in his company for one simple reason. If Nigel Stirling’s net worth weren’t measured in the billions, those anorexic girls would disappear in an instant.

  As if on cue, the phone rattled. Though he appeared to all the world a man at ease, Stirling’s muscles tensed, his throat suddenly dry.

  “Yes?”

  “I suggest you turn on the news, sir.”

  Nigel clicked off. The mission had been a success.

  “Turn on the television.”

  At his words, a servant appeared from around the corner, remote control in hand. Behind the wet bar to his right, a massive LED screen, barely two inches thick, flashed to life.

  Stirling was greeted with a picture of chaos. He watched just long enough to confirm it. The chancellor was dead. Scotland Yard had no leads.

  Perfect.

  “Mute it.”

  The harried reporter went silent. Nigel again picked up the phone and dialed a ten-digit number, beginning with a one, the international code for the United States.

  “Sir?”

  The man sounded slightly out of breath, almost excited.

  “It is done,” Nigel said. “The position should be filled today.”

  “That is excellent news. I trust we are to proceed as planned?”

  “After I speak with our friends from the Emirates. I’ll be in touch.”

  Stirling clicked off, the anxiety in his system slowly giving way to a sense of anticipation. He considered the white beach in front of him, aware that despite the centuries that had passed since his organization was born from a single goal, those beaches had remained the same. A testament to the patience required for success.

  Soon, his vision would come to fruition, vindicating all the men whose vision and sacrifice had led to this moment.

  The cool breeze ruffled his unbuttoned shirt, whistled past his ears. Nigel felt like celebrating.

  “Girls, I do hope you’ve saved room for one more up there.”

  Chapter 6

  Boston, Massachusetts

  It was appropriate that storm clouds hovered over Boston’s Financial District. Inside each sleek, towering building employees sat riveted to a television as news of the British treasurer’s assassination dominated the airwaves. Leveraged buyouts and equity securities took a backseat to the dramatic murder investigation playing out in real-time, the normally oppressive din reduced to quiet murmurs and hushed conversation.

  On the top floor of one such building, Spencer Drake was also glued to his television, albeit for a different reason.

  President and CEO of Aldrich Securities, Drake’s office oozed power. As Aldrich controlled over half a trillion dollars in total assets, his was a lofty perch. An original Jackson Pollock hung behind his desk, overlooking an office large enough to play basketball in. Plush carpet covered the floor and supported several authentic Persian rugs. Mahogany covered three of the room’s walls, while a fourth consisted solely of floor-to-ceiling windows equipped with automatic dimming and retractable blinds. Seated at a conference table designed for twenty, Drake leaned back in his Herman Miller Aeron chair and waited, his mind far away.

  Approaching his sixtieth birthday, Drake considered that this could be the moment he’d been groomed for, the time when two hundred years of effort came to fruition. A manicured hand ran through his light brown hair, professionally styled every two weeks for a mere five hundred dollars. One had to keep up appearances.

  Normally quite relaxed, Spencer flicked a tiny speck of dirt from his charcoal gray pinstriped suit. Like every one he owned, it was sewn by his personal tailor at Gieves & Hawkes, the finest in London.

  A shrill ring cut through the still office air.

  Caught off guard, he glanced at the number. It had been less than an hour since the news had broken.

  “Sir?”

  “Spencer, do you have a moment?”

  The pleasantry was quite unlike Nigel Stirling’s usual brusque tone. Spencer snapped to attention.

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Excellent. I have on the line my dear friend Khalifa bin Khan, President of the United Arab Emirates.”

  Spencer straightened in his chair. This was unexpected.

  “Mr. President, it is a pleasure.”

  “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Drake. I trust you are well?”

  Silky smooth, the soft voice of the emir of Abu Dhabi drifted over the phone like a desert breeze. As hereditary leader of seven of the most oil-rich nations on the planet, bin Khan was one of the most powerful men in the world.

  Bin Khan was the man who controlled the flow of oil.

  “I am, Mr. President,” Drake replied. “I hope you are as well.”

  A quiet wheeze that might have been a laugh filtered through.

  “As well as a man can be with four wives. There is no end to their constant chattering.”

  “May they bless you with a hundred sons, Mr. President,” Nigel offered.

  “Spencer,” Nigel continued, “the president has called regarding some recent news I am happy to share. I thought you would like to hear this as well.”

  Whatever was going on, it was big. Men such Nigel Stirling and Khalifa bin Khan didn’t waste time.

  “I was just informed that Prime Minister Duncan has appointed the replacement for the recently deceased Chancellor Sutton.”

  Suddenly it all made sense. Drake’s breath caught in his throat. This was what they’d been waiting for.

  “The prime minister has chosen your former classmate, Colin Moore.”

  Khalid bin Khan’s soft baritone filled the room. “It seems as though all of the English are connected in one way or another.”

  “Colin and I were Oppidans together at Keate House during our time at Eton. We had quite the experience during our five years.”

  “Nigel, would you arrange a time when I may congratulate Mr. Moore on his elevation? This is certainly a proud moment for his family.”

  “I will, President bin Khan. He will greatly appreciate your call.”

  “Thank you. You must excuse me, gentlemen, for I have a prior engagement. I bid you good day.”

  The oil magnate clicked off.

  Nigel Stirling was all business now. “Spencer, I don’t have to tell you what this means. As soon as bin Khan is on board, we can move forward.”

  Drake stood and stretched his arms overhead, filled with newfound energy.

  “That is excellent news, sir. I await your instructions.”

  “Don’t go far. I have to speak with Colin first, but things appear to be back on track.”

  After Nigel hung up, Spencer allowed his mind to wander. He had no idea what kind of a man Khalifa bin Khan was, nor what his political leanings were. Based on this conversation, it appeared Mr. bin Khan was a believer in what drove them all.

  Profits.

  As long as bin Khan agreed to join them, and Spencer didn’t doubt for a second that he would, Nigel was correct. Their wait would be over, and a new era would be upon them.

  Satisfied with the progress, Spencer poured two fingers of single malt into a crystal glass, and the smoky scent of peat filled the air. As he savored the aged Scotc
h, an e-mail from Nigel Stirling popped up on his phone. Spencer read through twice and then immediately shouted toward the door.

  “Liz, get in here.”

  His secretary scurried through the door, bronzed legs generously on display between a high-cut skirt and blood red Manolo Blahnik’s.

  “Get my broker up here immediately.”

  Liz’s flowing black hair bobbed once in acknowledgement before she vanished out the door. Nigel Stirling had given him a task to complete, one that was critical to their success.

  Spencer needed to purchase oil futures. Millions of barrels worth of them.

  Chapter 7

  Philadelphia, PA

  Tires screeched as the yellow taxi shuddered to a halt. In back, a wide-eyed Parker Chase breathed a sigh of relief, once again amazed at the breakneck driving style of Philadelphia hacks.

  On the sidewalk in front of Erika’s apartment, a warm breeze blew through fresh leaves, though the slender saplings’ aesthetic effect on their urban environment was somewhat spoiled by pieces of trash that swirled around his feet. At least it was sunny, blue skies overhead free of clouds.

  The sidewalks were filled with pedestrians enjoying the beautiful weekend weather. As Parker hefted a carry-on suitcase up her steps, his thoughts flashed back to the strange phone call he’d received yesterday evening.

  Erika had recently received a grant to study some of Alexander Hamilton’s personal effects, a proud moment for both Dr. Carr and the university. However, when they’d spoken late last night, she’d seemed out of sorts about the assignment. Though he couldn’t put his finger on why he felt that way, he’d known something was up even before Erika ended the conversation by telling him he needed to see the artifacts.

  Despite his pleas, she said nothing further, promising to explain herself when he arrived in Philadelphia.

  Erika stood inside the open front door when he made it to her floor, and his train of thought derailed with crashing finality. No matter how many times he saw her, Erika Carr never failed to impress.

  Just under six feet tall, her athletic frame as toned as the day they’d met, she was a knockout. Her flowing blonde hair carried a floral scent as he wrapped his arms around her waist, returning the welcome embrace.

  “How was your flight?”

  She turned on her heel and led him inside, where a small platter of meat and cheese lay on the kitchen table.

  “Early.” To prove the point, a wide yawn escaped his lips. “You better appreciate all the sleep I lost getting here at this ungodly hour.”

  “Stop complaining. It’s not my fault you don’t have any friends in Pittsburgh. You’re lucky I’m letting you hang out with me.”

  Freshly cut prosciutto on the table distracted him. Mouth full, he looked up to find Erika gazing at him, the excitement from moments ago vanished.

  “What’s up? Everything all right?”

  Her soft blue eyes held his for a moment longer, before she abruptly stood and disappeared into her bedroom, re-emerging moments later with a single sheet of paper.

  “This is what I wanted to show you.”

  His eyes locked onto the page. It was a photocopy, completely covered in numbers.

  11 26 7 14 11 24 8 7 20 3 4 23 22 7 18 4 3 19 6 3 24 8 19 13 23 17 15 7 26 26 10 17 18 3 6 7 11 20 18 4 3 19 25 3 19 19 3 16 7 19 4 11 26 26 10 20 7 11 1 11 24 13 19 17 9 4 19 7 20 7 24 3 18 13 13 23 17 22 23 19 19 7 19 19 11 19 13 23 17 15 7 26 26 1 24 23 15 8 17 20 3 24 5 25 13 18 3 25 7 4 7 20 7 3 24 26 23 24 8 23 24 3 4 11 16 7 9 17 26 18 3 16 11 18 7 8 11 5 20 23 17 22 23 6 26 23 13 11 26 3 24 6 23 20 25 11 24 18 19 15 4 23 4 11 16 7 11 9 9 7 19 19 18 23 1 3 24 5 5 7 23 20 5 7 19 3 24 24 7 20 9 3 20 9 26 7 3 24 18 4 7 22 11 19 18 18 4 7 3 20 3 24 6 23 20 25 11 18 3 23 24 4 11 19 22 20 23 16 7 24 10 7 13 23 24 8 20 7 22 20 23 11 9 4 20 7 9 7 24 18 26 13 23 24 7 19 17 9 4 16 11 26 17 7 8 22 11 18 20 3 23 18 3 24 6 23 20 25 7 8 25 7 23 6 11 8 11 19 18 11 20 8 26 13 22 26 23 18 10 7 3 24 5 6 23 20 25 17 26 11 18 7 8 11 18 18 4 7 4 3 5 4 7 19 18 26 7 16 7 26 19 23 6 18 4 7 25 23 24 11 20 9 4 13 3 10 7 26 3 7 16 7 18 4 11 18 19 7 16 7 20 11 26 25 7 25 10 7 20 19 23 6 18 4 7 1 3 24 5 19 18 20 7 11 19 17 20 13 4 11 16 7 24 23 18 13 7 18 11 9 9 7 22 18 7 8 18 4 7 3 20 20 7 9 7 24 18 8 7 6 7 11 18 23 24 7 23 6 23 17 20 19 22 3 7 19 20 7 9 7 24 18 26 13 17 24 9 23 16 7 20 7 8 11 22 26 11 24 18 23 3 24 6 3 26 18 20 11 18 7 23 17 20 24 7 15 5 23 16 7 20 24 25 7 24 18 3 15 3 26 26 6 17 20 18 4 7 20 22 17 20 19 17 7 18 4 3 19 26 3 24 7 23 6 3 24 21 17 3 20 13 3 25 25 7 8 3 11 18 7 26 13 11 19 22 26 11 24 24 7 8 25 13 24 7 14 18 20 7 22 23 20 18 15 3 26 26 10 7 8 7 26 3 16 7 20 7 8 15 3 18 4 3 24 11 19 4 3 22 25 7 24 18 18 23 20 11 9 4 7 26 18 15 23 23 22 22 23 19 3 24 5 11 20 20 23 15 19 11 8 23 20 24 7 8 10 13 25 13 18 23 17 9 4 6 3 20 7 8 18 23 5 7 18 4 7 20 15 3 26 26 20 7 16 7 11 26 18 4 7 18 20 17 18 4 22 20 7 16 7 20 7

  “What is this?”

  Her expression had him worried.

  “I found it two days ago. In the box of Alexander Hamilton’s correspondence.”

  It took a few seconds, but the expectant, earnest look she gave him finally made sense.

  His jaw dropped.

  “You think it’s a code. A Caesar cipher.”

  “I don’t think it is. I know it.”

  Several months ago, following Joseph Chase’s death, Parker and Erika had discovered a coded message at Independence Hall which had ultimately led them to Joe’s killers. With Erika’s help, Parker had cracked the code, written several hundred years ago by one of America’s greatest patriots.

  A Caesar cipher was a type of substitution code, in which a number or series of numbers represented a letter. Originally developed by Julius Caesar, the particular cipher he and Erika had uncovered was decoded when they discovered that the number seven corresponded with the letter “e” and went backwards from there.

  Parker’s mind flashed back several months. “It’s the same type of sequence from the Hall.”

  “It not only looks the same.” As Erika spoke, a second paper materialized from behind her back. “It was the same code. And read what it says.”

  For the second time that year, Parker found himself on the receiving end of a centuries-old hidden passage.

  Alexander,

  I hope this finds you well, but I fear this missive shall break any such serenity you possess.

  As you well know, during my time here in London I have cultivated a group of loyal informants who have access to King George’s inner circle. In the past, their information has proven beyond reproach. Recently, one such valued patriot informed me of a dastardly plot being formulated at the highest levels of the monarchy.

  I believe that several members of the king’s treasury have not yet accepted their recent defeat. One of my spies has uncovered a plan to infiltrate our new American government. I will further pursue this line of inquiry immediately.

  As planned, my next report will be delivered within a shipment to Rachel. Two opposing arrows adorned by my touch, fired together, will reveal the truth.

  Yr. Faithful Servant,

  P. Revere

  “Paul Revere? As in the midnight ride Paul Revere?”

  Erika nodded.

  “Paul Revere was a spy? I thought he was a silversmith.”

  Her face was alight.

  “According to the history books, that’s all he was. I’ve never seen anything suggesting Revere was involved with espionage in any way.”

  A sudden rush of memories ripped through Parker’s mind as he considered her find. Most of them were filled with bullets whizzing past his head, and in one case, taking a piece of his shoulder with it.

  “What kind of papers were you studying when you found this?”

  The suspicion must have been evident in his voice.

  “Parker, I swear I was told they were documents from a container found during preparations for an estate sale. The owner went to a museum after she found the letters, and the entire batch was identified as personal correspondence from Alexander Hamilton. I had no idea this was inside.”

  As improbable as it
seemed, he realized there was no way she could have known.

  “I’m simply surprised you’d find a letter written in the exact same code.”

  Erika immediately switched into professor mode.

  “If you think about, it’s not that strange. The first coded letter, the one we found at Independence Hall, was written in the years immediately following the Revolution, in the late eighteenth century. It makes perfect sense that this code”-she held up the photocopied page-“would have been in use ten years earlier, immediately following the war, when Revere would have served as a spy. In case you forgot, he was involved with the struggle for Independence from the very beginning.”

  Parker was familiar with the legend of Revere’s midnight ride to warn Colonial troops of a British invasion.

  “Was there anything else unusual in the papers you studied?”

  “Nothing.” Her head shook emphatically. “They were just as I was told, letters Hamilton wrote to a variety of people.”

  “You tested the papers?”

  “Of course. This type of paper is correct for the period, as is the ink and style of prose. If it’s a fake, it’s a damn good one.”

  “But how would anyone know to fake this with the same cipher we found? That coded letter had been hidden for two hundred years.”

  “I agree. Also, why would someone go to the trouble of forging a coded message? Even if anybody knew what we found at Independence Hall, there’s no way they would have known I would be studying this find. I was only told about it a week ago.”

  Despite the type of reservations you can only get from a near-death experience, Parker couldn’t help but consider the message.

  “If we assume this is true, what the hell is Revere talking about?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  She grabbed the decoded message from his hands and laid it on the kitchen table.

  “The first thing that jumped out at me was the time frame. Revere references both King George and the king’s recent defeat. Combined with the words ‘new American government,’ I think it’s clear this letter was written soon after America’s successful Revolution.”